


~ Night of Blood ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Northern Lights [18]
Category: Fandom Fusion - Fandom, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dark Prince series, Gen, M/M, Mention of M/M relationships, Mention of Physical and Emotional Abuse, Mention of human trafficking and underage, Northern Lights series, Revenge, Summerland series, The F—word, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 06:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18360239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: Vanimórë speaks to Coldagnir outside the village and Maglor, when he learns from Sören of the abuse he suffered at the hands of his ex, Justin, travels, with Vanimórë’s help, from Iceland to London ...





	~ Night of Blood ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/gifts).



  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ Night of Blood ~**

 

 

 

 

It did not get fully dark in Iceland this time of year, even at long past midnight. The sky arced luminous overhead, a ‘white night’, and the air hovered on the edge of cool.

He had left Maglor asleep, and Auli curled up, twitching in sheepdog dreams.

Vanimórë walked until the scattered houses of Svalbarðseyri were left behind and the liminality of the place enfolded him. Iceland, with its volcanic heat, reminded him of Mordor at times, but the plains of Gorgoroth and Lithlad had never offered this unforgiving and uncompromising beauty.  
Yet there was more here than a memory of the past; here in the North where Thangorodrim’s peaks had stood like titans, smoke-crowned, staring their threat south over Ard Galen. The world had changed. The shadows remained, lurking at the corner of the eyes.

But there were distractions from that ancient darkness clenched like a fist deep in the earth: the scent of the sea, the cool, wild smell of the northern world, the space and mystery.  
A shooting star curved down, amber-coloured against the pale sky. It was not the time of year for meteor showers, but here, with the air so clear, it was not so uncommon to see a lone one or more, streaking the sky, burning up as they hit the atmosphere.  
This one did not. Neither was there any impact to alarm the populace. Vanimórë continued to walk, the gentle hills rising on his right, the sea quiet on his left, until he came to the one he was meeting.

Coldagnir was standing looking over the sea. He was dressed in dark clothes, black jeans, a black woollen shirt, sleeves rolled up over the slim strong forearms, and his hair spilled down to his waist in scarlet spirals. His eyes, when he turned, glowed like fired bronze. Even with his glamour in place, he was startling.

He flashed a white smile, and embraced Vanimórë, kissing him on the mouth.

‘How is Magrét?’ Vanimórë asked.

‘She is well. Concerned about Sören.’

‘We all are, but things will change.’ _I hope_. They continued to walk. ‘And in Claire’s world?’

Coldagnir smiled fondly. ‘She copes well and — at the moment — there is no danger. Not close to them, anyhow.’ _Not yet._ ‘Edenel and I will be torn when the time comes to leave. And here, too. We will fight in the Dagor Dagorath, that we have vowed, and because we want to, but after...’ His smile faded. ‘It is difficult, and especially for Edenel, because of his people, but we both wish to return.’

‘You need not ask me,’ Vanimórë said. ‘Although I do not know how the Dagorath will affect other universe, or even our own. But nothing ends, Nemrúshkeraz, not forever. And even gods can love.’

‘And they should, it is the concealment which is hard.’

‘I do not think they are quite ready for the sun god, Aelios, not yet, in either world.’

Coldagnir reached out a hand to the hovering red sun, little flames curling around his fingers like lovers. ‘Perhaps not yet.’ He smiled. ‘Magrét is getting married in August. She and Frankie have asked me to be one of their attendants. What a very _Fëanorion_ family they are. Woe betide anyone who dares to harm one of them, mentally or physically.’

Vanimórë had to laugh. ‘Yes, there is a great resemblance. So this is why you like them so much?’ he teased.

‘I have not met them all, but yes,’ with a hovering smile, ‘it is one of the things that draws me to them: The fire.’

‘You will see Sören at the wedding,’ Vanimórë remarked.

Coldagnir closed his fingers, quenching the fire. ‘Yes. At least he is in a better mental place now than they last time I saw him. Or at least he was. He broadcasts very intensely.’ A frown. ‘Sooner or later, Vanimórë, something that does not have these peoples’ best interests at heart is going to pick up on all that energy. Their concealing it can only go so far.’

‘Yes,’ Vanimórë said, ‘I know. It is one of the perils of being _different_ on this world. It was far easier in Middle-earth, where power was simply accepted, even among Men.’

‘Speaking of Fëanorions and Middle-earth, Maglor is also broadcasting distress.’

‘This one is. I hope not the other.’

‘No more than usual, no. The undercurrent is always there, but there is some comfort now, if not hope, exactly. He does not dare.’

‘Not yet,’ Vanimórë murmured.

‘Should I meet him?’

‘At some point, but now...He has too much on his mind. I fear an explosion that might shake this village, and we cannot afford that.’

Coldagnir looked toward the scattered houses. ‘And his rage would be merited.’ He turned back. ‘What do we wait for?’

‘For whatever is to happen here — to happen,’ Vanimore said ambiguously. ‘I can pull all the strings, but you know my thoughts on that. But — like Claire — Sören is different. As is his family.’

‘This all began because of Maglor,’ Coldagnir said quietly. ‘In both universes.’

‘Yes. Hells, how could it _not_? Nemrúshkeraz —‘ He traced the lovely face with his fingertips. ‘Thou knowest thy life; some of it has been thine: the torment, the fear. Thou didst see the first _Quendi_ in all their beauty. When Fingolfin came to the gates of Angband, and thou didst save one of the crystals from his shield.’

‘Yes,’ Coldagnir pressed his cheek into Vanimórë’s palm. ‘I hated him, his glory, his beauty, but I could not help myself.’

‘Like a star falling into darkness,’ he said. ‘I had known Melkor and Sauron. _Yes_ , they were magnificent, but they were my masters, my enslavers, and for all Sauron was my father, they were both alien to me. And then there were the orcs, the human slaves.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Of course I saw Mortals in the East and South, but my blood cried out for my kin. And then _he_ came. Into Barad-dûr.’ He looked back into memory with a smile that vanished with the next words. ‘When I saw him he was almost broken by Sauron — not quite. My father always knew, to a hair, how close to the edge he could walk, how much pressure to apply. And still, he was Elven; and so beautiful. I never thought...I could never believe — how could I?— that he would _want_ me.’

‘Thou art a fool.’

Vanimórë lifted a brow. ‘I know how I look to Mortals. But he was Noldo. Fëanor’s second son.’

‘Gods, Elves, Mortals.’ Coldagnir moved into him. ‘It matters not. _the face of a god who has kissed the face of sin_ ’

‘I was fashioned as a weapon,’ Vanimórë said sardonically. ‘One who could also be used in bed.’

‘Well, whatever thou wert, then, Maglor _desired_ thee.’

‘I thought he was working out his pain, his rage, and I was not about to object. It was the first time I knew true passion. What it was like to be eaten alive by it.’ His skin blazed hot in remembrance. ‘It was immolation. It was magnificent. And though he hated me — still hates me — even now, he tries to bring me back from the edge.’

‘The call of blood is stronger than death itself, Vanimórë. And thou didst give him what he needed, as thou didst me: the _Anguish_. That cannot be forgotten.’

‘Certainly not by me,’ Vanimorë smiled. ‘I do so enjoy giving people what they need.’

‘And thou?’ Coldagnir asked. ‘What dost thou need, thyself?’

‘I take pleasure where it is offered, my dear. I always have.’ He turned aside from the hidden truths under the insouciant words. ‘But only where it is offered. Maglor was the one time when I acted without consent, sexually. And so, yes, it always begins with him, but does not end with him. Those he becomes close to, those he loves, are interesting, worthy of respect. And more.’

‘I agree.’ But there was a thoughtful look in the fiery eyes. ‘At the beginning, I wondered if thou wert just marking time, before the Dagor Dagorath.’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘I am afraid that I found the Portal irresistible. I had visions, in the Timeless Halls.’ He glanced away at the glimmering sea. ‘Dreams, perhaps, of myself in different realities. They were — disturbing. I did not want to see myself, but of course I wondered about others. How could one help it? I am still _too_ human, Nemrúshkeraz. Is someone with my power supposed to play favourites? But it seems I cannot help it.’

‘Better to feel human with the powers thou hast, I think.’

‘Perhaps. All I know is that I cannot be as Eru.’

‘Thou doth not think Eru plays favourites?’ Coldagnir asked. Vanimórë shot him a cold smile.  
‘Not with me.’

The sea sighed like a woman dreaming. Vanimórë watched it for a long moment, a small wave curled and died in white foam. He looked back. ‘There is another reason I am here.’

‘Yes?’

‘The ring I took from Sauron’s follower in Venice,’ he said hardly. ‘I was thinking of using it as a lure, and did not want to leave it in the Timeless Halls, harmless though it would be there. So I brought it with me when I met Sören in the Reykjavik club.’ He gave Coldagnir a wry smile. ‘I lost it in the hotel. I did not realise until I returned to the Halls; my mind was rather...occupied. And then I thought...it could be a lure, here, to bring things out of the woodwork.’

‘And?’

‘It did bring one particularly nasty specimen out, though not the one I hoped for. His name was Justin. Magrét must have told thee about him.’

Coldagnir’s eyes showed liquid fire. ‘Oh, she did, yes. Frankie, too, told me about that one: The thug who mistreated Sören in London.’

Vanimórë nodded. ‘Even a lesser ring created by Sauron would draw a certain type. Justin was not a loner, but he liked power, was narcissistic, with a bent for cruelty, which, as you know, he took out on Sören more than once physically, and mentally, all through their relationship. The ring, which he found in an antique shop, was his talisman, he thought it brought him good luck when playing football.’

‘Why,’ Coldagnir asked, ‘art thou speaking of him in the past tense?’

‘Was I?’ Vanimórë asked innocently. ‘It must have been...er...wishful thinking. I have discovered a few equally unsavoury titbits about him. No doubt the ring influences him, but it also brings to the surface what is already there.

Coldagnir said. ‘Yes, I did a little checking on him myself.’ A flick of fire from sun to sun-god.

‘It does tell me one thing though. This was not an entirely unsuccessful piece of bait. I do not think the rings would have had as much power without its maker being evident on the world.’

‘Well, we know this world is very similar to Claire’s.’

‘True. Well, to return to Justin Roberts: There is a certain discreet address in Notting Hill, where the rich and powerful can order...entertainment. Those who supply it are not too concerned if what they supply is damaged, as long as they are paid.’

‘He would be that stupid?’ Coldagnir demanded. ‘It would wreck his career were it known.’

‘Money, my dear, buys one’s way out of a multitude of sins. He would say he had no idea that the boys he buys for the night were trafficked, or too young, and it is not exactly illegal to pay for sex, or to be quiet about it, even if one might consider it distasteful and unnecessary for a ‘golden boy’ of football, not knowing his appetites. And, according to my sources, there are some very high-level perverts frequent that address.’

‘Your sources? Ah, Charlie.’

‘My equivalent of Howard, here. Yes.’

‘And this goes on, and no-one tries to close it down, of course.’

‘It has been tried. The traffickers merely melt away, and reform elsewhere, and the embarrassed ‘guests’ pay for silence.’ He considered. ‘I wonder. We could kill two birds with one stone. Not me, of course, I have to stay here and look after Auli, but _someone_ certainly could.’

‘I cannot think who that might be.’ Coldagnir looked limpid.

‘He does not know, yet, but when Sören reveals what Justin did, we are going to have one very vengeful Fëanorion on our hands. I suppose,’ he added, ‘I ought to go and set a few things in motion. Nemrúshkeraz, I would like thee to follow Maglor. There is no need to let him know, however. He can perfectly well deal with Justin Roberts on his own. I am thinking of a little something thou canst do better than anyone.’

Coldagnir smiled. ‘I would be delighted,’ he said.

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Vanimórë drove into Akureyri to buy some groceries and make a couple of calls. For one, he used his iPhone.  
‘Clarissa, how goes it?’

He held the phone away from his ear as Clarissa proceeded to rip his (known) character to shreds. The tirade would have been a great deal longer had she known more about him. It ended with: ‘—ck you.’

He grinned. ‘Charlie, I am shocked and wounded. I may have to reconsider buying you dinner at the Dorchester. _Salon Prive,_ of course.’

‘...to London? Oh _god_.’

‘Not immediately, but I can certainly make reservations.’

‘...up your arse.’

‘That sounds rather kinky to me, Charlie, not to mention a waste of good food, but who am I to question your tastes?’

‘...ck off.’

‘Dinner it is then.’

‘—you _want_?’

‘Just a little _quid pro quo_.’ He abandoned the bantering tone and felt, across the miles that separated them, her attention sharpen. ‘A friend of mine will be visiting London shortly. One or two things are going to happen, and will be linked. I would appreciate the aftermath being dealt with as quietly as possible. And so, I am sure, would you and quite a few governments across the world. It will be in everyone’s best interests.’

There was a long silence, then her voice came clipped. ‘Go on.’

 

 

An hour later, he made his second call. This time he did not use the iPhone.  
‘Dasaev,’ he said. ‘How are you?....Good. I have a little job for you.’

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ Some Days Later ~**

  
  
  
Vanimorë felt the explosion of fury from several miles away as he let Auli run. He had been away from the house most of the last few days, giving Maglor and Sören time, only returning late in the evening.  
  
The rage was incandescent. It harked back to the Maglor of the Elder Days before the Doom dug in its ever-sharper claws and took his brothers one by one. It felt like Fëanor’s star-fire fury. And it was deadly. As he parked the Bentley, he was smiling.  
  
Inside, Maglor stormed out of the bedroom and backhanded him around the face.  
‘You never told me! Why?’ His loose hair almost crackled with electricity. His eyes burned white-hot.  
  
His cheek stinging, Vanimorë said, ‘I never told thee because it was not for me to do so.’ He held up one hand. ‘Thou art alarming Auli.’ Gripping Maglor’s wrist, he jerked him back into the bedroom. Maglor whirled away from him.  
‘He _hurt_ Sören. He —‘ His breath seemed to desert him, his chest heaved. ‘How _dare_ he, someone not fit to touch him, to occupy the same space—!’  
  
‘I agree. Now will you _listen_?’  
  
‘No. Thou hast nothing to say I want to hear.’ He walked to the window, knuckles blanched write as he gripped the sill. ‘He treated Sören like some kind of slave. Made him feel small and useless and stupid. He forced himself on him. _Thou_ shouldst understand that, from both sides. Hurt him, _raped_ him. And yet, Sören went back to him.’ He sounded, through the anger, bewildered.  
  
‘Some people believe they deserve that treatment,’ Vanimórë said quietly. ‘That they have no worth. Sören, for all his talent, his beauty, his personality, is one of them. It goes back a long way, with him, Maglor, as thou knowest. Thou and Dooku have both helped him. Or for a while thou didst. Then, when he was hurt and rootless, thinking he was good for nothing but a quick fuck, this Justin reeled him in. People like that can sniff out such uncertainty, such vulnerability, those who would make good victims. They also know enough to turn on the charm when they go too far, and when thou art so low in thine own self-esteem, as Sören was, then thy thought is: Who else would have me?’  
  
Maglor’s shoulders cut a straight line against the light outside. He said, without turning his head. ‘He will pay for that.’ His voice was calm now, as the sky is calm before the breaking of a storm. The house seemed to echo with it.  
  
‘Good. _Now_ listen to me. Thou art quite capable of dealing with Justin thyself, but I can make it easier for thee and ensure no questions are asked. A lot of use it would be to Sören if thou wert to spend the next fifty years being wanted for murder.’  
  
Slowly Maglor turned. ‘The thin places thou didst speak of? Can I use them to go from one to another.’  
  
Vanimórë smiled. _Well done._ ‘Yes, if one has a clear idea of the other portal, or thou couldst end up anywhere. Fortunately, I have a very good map. Sit down, Macalaurë, and listen to me.’  
  
Tension sang in him like a wire, high and dangerous, but he sat on the edge of the bed, drove his hands between his knees.  
  
‘Justin, in London, acquired a ring from an old antique shop. I brought that ring from another world where Sauron works from the shadows. It was he who made it.’  
  
‘A Ring of Power?’ Maglor burst out. ‘And thou didst bring it _here_? Idiot!’  
  
‘A lesser ring. I took it from its original bearer in Venice.’ He had to smile at the thought of Maglor in both worlds, and so very similar. Fëanorions, it seemed, bred true, in every reality. ‘It was clearly passed on; I imagine there are only a certain number of them. There is an inscription inside the band, but hard to read. But yes, it does have power, enough to influence the susceptible. To Justin it whispered of power, of the joy to be had in inflicting pain, magnifying his own appetites. When thou hast killed him, take it from him and bring it back.’  
  
Maglor hesitated then said tautly: ‘Very well, What else?’  
  
‘At certain times, once every fortnight or so, Justin leaves his house and travels by taxi to an address in Notting Hill. Very few know of it. In this house, he is free to exercise his most base appetites — for a price.’ Maglor’s mouth curled in disgust. ‘He has a taste for beautiful young men, but as the ring’s influence becomes more marked, so does his perversions. Boys can be supplied, as can girls. Trafficked, underaged, terrified and often on drugs.’  
  
A cloud must have crossed the sky. It was dim in the room now; Maglor’s eyes shone star-silver.  
‘It will be a double pleasure,’ he enunciated, ‘to kill him.’  
  
‘Naturally. I wish I could join thee. Now, I have people watching his movements. The next night he goes to this house, his taxi will be driven by certain...friends of mine. They will take him to a warehouse. To wait for _thee_.’ He drew a cellphone from his pocket, tossed it to Maglor. ‘He will not be suspicious; they will tell him that the house is possibly under surveillance, and are taking him to somewhere safer. The warehouse will be equipped for his pleasure. When he arrives, is given champagne and drugs of his choice, you will be called, on this phone. A man named Dasaev will come and collect thee, taking thee to the warehouse. After thou art done with Justin, they will take thee wherever thou doth wish.’  
  
‘Criminals?’ Maglor asked with a wry twist of the mouth.  
  
‘Yes. Although the ones who clear it up after, will not be. There really is going to be a raid on that house, and it will emerge that Justin Roberts had dealings with undesirable criminal organisations, pedophiles and human traffickers. No more golden boy. Not even the memory of one.’  
  
‘Well and good.’ Maglor rose. ‘Now, let me see that map.’  
  
‘Thou canst leave from the Dimmuborgir portal,’ Vanimórë said. ‘It is not far. Prepare anything thou might need. Thou hast money of course.’  
  
‘Of course,’ Maglor replied.  
  
‘I have a flat in Chelsea.’ He opened his briefcase and jangled a seat of keys. ‘Dasaev will collect thee. I will alert security that thou art staying for a night or two.’ In the face of an obvious refusal, he said, ‘It is already arranged. Leave as few footprints as thou canst, Maglor.’  
  
‘I will have to tell Sören I’ll be away for a day or two,’ Maglor said regretfully as he caught the tossed keys.  
  
‘Then tell him.’  
  
‘I am not going to make this an easy death, Vanimórë.’ It was a vow.  
  
Vanimórë kissed him, smiling. ‘Good.’  
  
  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Maglor, dressed for hiking, stepped through the portal into stone-scented darkness, a blaze of sun beyond, sharp as the stoke of an axe. Cautiously, he moved toward the light, listening. There was no sound but the movement of trees blowing in the breeze.

He ran his fingers along the stone of the great megaliths as he left the chamber. Weyland’s Smithy, a long barrow set on the Ridgeway above the Vale of the White Horse. It spoke to him in a language so old that most had forgotten it. And others too, felt it. He saw offerings of flowers, crystals, left by those who sensed the liminal quality of this place, the slumbering power here.

Beyond, hot sun beat the ancient trackway into pale dust. In the distance, he saw the backs of two other hikers, and followed them past the mysterious White Horse Hill and the earthworks of Uffington Castle, walking on with the sound of skylarks falling in his ears until he dropped down to the old market town of Wantage. Here, he stopped at the old Bear Hotel for food and beer, then boarded the Stagecoach bus to Oxford. From there, he took another to London. He had tucked his hair up under a cap, and dark glasses shielded his eyes. Just another summer hiker, going from place to place.

In London, he took the Tube to Sloane Square and walked until he reached the address of Vanimórë’s flat. No-one looked at him or questioned him.

The penthouse suite was a surprise, although he did not know quite what he had expected. All was light, airy, with huge, comfortable chairs and sofas, paintings on the wall...

Paintings. No reproductions here, nor any old Masters, but original work by living artists. Pride of place was given to a piece of a lush garden, bursting with rich flowers that formed a frame around a deep green froth of foliage. In the centre...a dancer.

Lowering his backpack to the floor, Maglor walked toward it.

The dancer was Vanimórë, the dance was the Seven Veils which Salome was said to have performed before Herod Antipas for the head of John the Baptist.  
He was gloriously naked, every muscle delineated by a diffuse light, hair storming around him, glossy and virile as the mane of a black lion.

His eyes were a clear, shocking violet, and his lush mouth was just parted as though he was concentrating on his performance, wanted to please an unknown audience. There was a distant, half wild expression on his face as a man about to reach orgasm, and his cock rose hard and dark against his flat belly. The veils held galaxies spinning from a hot brilliant core into a sweep of gauzy arms that became the edges of the veils.  
  
it was Sören’s work. Maglor could _see_ the expression on that lovely face as he bent over his work, absorbed by an inner vision. And he had known, always, that Sören did more than recreate his imaginings; there was some other power at work in him. This picture glowed with it.  
  
He ran his fingers over the painting, wishing beyond all things that he could have explained something — anything — to Sören before he left, as they still circled one another warily and — for him at least — with longing.  
  
_What art thou, Sören. And what art thou, Vanimórë_?  
  
He turned away. Breathed. The rage was still there, but repressed. _Waiting_. Maedhros had excelled at this: holding it until it was necessary to unleash it in battle. Maglor remembered. _I remember_. He had been the same. He had, once, slain a Balrog, when the fire still blazed in him.  
The fire of hope, the fire of his father, star-bright, perilous, a glory and a tragedy.  
  
And then, the ruin, the death of hope, and the endless, unfolding years had dampened that fire down until only a few embers remained, enough to keep him walking, breathing in a world of Men who would have worshipped him, sacrificed him, burned him, experimented on him. And moving, always moving toward a future he did not believe in, but holding on because he could do nothing else, because _he_ of all his family in Middle-earth had _not died._ His existence kept their memory alive. _If I remember, they are not gone._  
  
A few pleasures, a few simple pleasures. Until Sören, irresistibly, had tugged at his heart, drawn him into his world, allowed him to see through his eyes...  
  
His hands clenched. The passion...it was like coming home after forgetting what home even was.  
  
He sat down abruptly on the sofa, put his head in his hands. He had danced in that passion like Vanimórë in the picture, and walked away from fear of loss. (More loss, more grief) And Sören had walked into the hands of someone who took everything he was and misused it. Misused _him_.  
  
He stood up, carried his backpack into the bedroom.  
  
The bed was huge, pale gold and white, and the room lead onto an en-suite bathroom where Maglor showered and washed his hair. He looked through Vanimórë’s wardrobe and pulled out a pair of dark jeans and hooded top. For once, he was glad that their height and build were so similar. He packed a change of clothes into an overnight bag.  
  
Black. To conceal the blood.  
  
_Wait._ Hold it in. Wait.  
  
He was sitting over a glass of wine when the phone rang. Despite everything, his heart jolted. An accented voice told him to expect a car outside the flat in fifteen minutes.  
  
A warm, humid darkness lay over the city as he emerged, walking to the car he had watched arrive. It was a nondescript Volvo, the driver equally unremarkable, middle-aged, clean-shaven, a broad, pleasant face. A baseball cap was pulled low over his brow. The interior of the car smelled of old leather and cigars.  
  
‘You are Van’s friend, yes? I’m Dasaev.’ The same voice, the same accent.  
  
‘Yes,’ Maglor said shortly.  
  
‘You tell him from me he’s a mad bastard,’ Dasaev said jovially, and slid into the traffic.  
  
‘How do you know him?’  
  
A glance in the driving mirror. A small charm danced from it. ‘You’re one of his oldest friends, he says.’ A hint of a question.  
  
Maglor stifled a denial. ‘I’ve known him a long time.’ _Off and on._  
  
‘Me too.’ A pause. ‘Chechnya.’ Another. ‘There’s a debt, you see.’  
  
Maglor rather thought he did. He eyed the man with some interest, nodded.  
  
‘He’s the reason I’m here, and my family.’ The man’s mouth shut.  
  
  
  
The area he was taken to was spotted with dereliction and a few overly optimistic attempts at regeneration, lonely islands in an almost-wasteland of urban decay. The car pulled up outside a line of old warehouses, engine idling. Litter tumbled past as if even it were eager to be somewhere else. Gasoline puddles glimmered. The air stank of rubbish, sweating tarmac.  
  
The driver looked over his shoulder, passed him a phone. ‘Preprogrammed number. You call that when you’ve finished. I’ll take you back to his flat, or wherever you need.’  
  
They got out and the driver lead them toward a bolted door. ‘Locks from the inside,’ he explained. ‘Very sound-proof.’ He showed his teeth in a cold grin. ‘Have a good time.’  
  
  
  


OooOooO

 

 

The interior was — or had been — stark: bare bulbs glaring over harem-style decor that hung from overhead pipes. Whoever had paid for this, (probably Vanimórë) had spared no expense: silks and velvets, heavy Persian-style rugs on the concrete floor, a tower fan blowing cool air. Maglor looked at the man half-laying on the luxurious divan drinking from a bottle of Taittinger Special Reserve. More bottles sat in a cool-box choked with ice. The light gleamed on a gold band on his right hand.  
The alcohol was not the only reason for the brightness of his eyes. He was clearly buzzing with some drug or other and had removed all of his clothes except the silk boxers, tented upward by the stiffness of his cock. Around him were scattered sex-aids: lubricant, a huge studded dildo, a riding crop, a whip, handcuffs, a blindfold, a ball-gag, a thin length of rope.

His brows rose when he saw Maglor. ‘About fucking time.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Come here.’ There was an predatory anticipation to his expression; if he had been a dog, he would be drooling.

 _He pays for what he wants,_ Vanimórë had said. _For the time he buys them, they are his slaves. Sounds familiar no_?

Maglor pushed back his hood, drew off his sunglasses.  
  
‘What the fuck is this?’ Justin demanded. This isn’t what I ordered.’ Then his face changed. ‘I dunno though. You’re very pretty.’ There was a flicker of uncertainty there, because Maglor was taller, with the build of a Noldorin warrior, all sleek, hard muscle. Justin was fit and strong but, as Maglor knew well, would be no match for him if things became ugly.  
  
Things were about to become very ugly.  
  
‘I am here about Sören,’ Maglor said. ‘You do remember him?’  
  
Justin’s mouth twitched. ‘What the _fuck_ is this—‘  
  
‘Answer me!’ His voice was not a shout, but it hit the walls like the stroke of a gong.  
  
‘Hey, mate, hey...yeah, I knew him.’ He stepped back, much of the intoxication drained from his eyes.  
  
‘You abused him.’ Maglor moved forward toward the couch. Justin backed away.  
  
‘If that’s what he told you he’s a lying little fuck —‘  
  
Maglor struck him across the face, sending him reeling. Before he could recover himself, Maglor sent him against the wall with a flying kick and followed, slamming the man’s head against it, once, twice, three times, saying through his teeth: ‘You dared to hurt someone I love, and now. Comes. The. Reckoning.’  
  
Justin slid down, dazed, half-conscious. Maglor picked up the rope, tied his hands and feet, and dragged him back to the divan, glancing around. The rope he had used was for restraint-play, but someone (Dasaev the Chechen?) had helpfully left a coil against the door. Maglor raised Justin’s arms, tied the thicker twine around and through his wrists and threw the end over a beam. As he pulled it taut, it lifted the man until only his feet touched the couch. He pulled down the silk shorts over a now-flaccid phallus, threw them aside.  
  
Justin coughed, spit. A cut on his head wept tears of blood into his eyes.  
  
‘You shit,’ he moaned. ‘I will fucking end you. I have friends who will put you so far in the fucking ground—‘  
  
‘I have very few friends,’ Maglor responded. ‘On the other hand, your putative friends are not here with you, are they? I am. Don’t you enjoy this, Justin? Being restrained as you restrained Sören?’  
  
Perhaps there was enough drug in his system to make him careless, or the ring was blunting any self-preservation the man might have had under normal circumstances. Whatever it was, a sneer overtook Justin’s face.  
‘So fucking what? He was my bitch. He loved this kind of thing. The world is full of fucking snowflakes these days.’  
  
Maglor slashed him across the face with the crop. Justin screamed, jouncing in his bonds, the screech dying away to sobs. His broken nose streamed blood.  
  
‘You made him feel worthless, that he was worth nothing except to take abuse from you, mental, physical, when you pleased, where you pleased.’ Maglor kept his voice level with an effort. His fault, of course, that Sören had fallen into this man’s hands, been swayed by his superficial charm. Well, had Maglor been inclined to let Justin live, no-one would ever again be attracted to his looks.  
  
He lifted the limp cock with the end of the crop. 

‘Not much use now, is it?’ He trailed it around to the man’s buttocks. ‘I doubt it gets hard at anything less than the thought of rape, these days.’  
  
‘No,’ Justin pleaded.  
  
‘You think _I_ want you?’ Maglor uttered a short, scornful laugh. ‘I would not touch something like you if you were served to me on a platter. The only reason Sören went near you was because he was hurt and broken. You must have seen that, or are too self-absorbed? Or did you like the thought of reducing him even more?’  
  
He brought the crop down on Justin’s phallus. The high-pitched screech lost itself in the beams. His bladder loosened. He wept and writhed  
  
‘What a shame Men die so quickly,’ Maglor said.  
  
But now, Justin’s reddened, tearful eyes were wide, staring at him as the rising rage burned all masks away so that even this piece of filth — perhaps especially him, wearing that ring — saw the truth of what he was: the flood of hair to his thighs, the face of one of the Eldar. He let it burn until he could feel it like an aura about him, as it had been long ago when he rode to war.  
  
Strange, whimpering noises came from Justin’s mouth, shapeless words of terror and disbelief.  
  
‘You harmed someone I love.’ Maglor seized his face in one hand. ‘You hurt him, you tried to break him so you could use him like the boys you hire for the night. You wanted a slave, filth. You never deserved Sören, his beauty, his laughter, his courage, his passion. And for that, I am going to send you to the Hells.’ He picked up the ball-gag, stuffed it in Justin’s mouth, bucked it around his skull.  
‘I never,’ he told the man. ‘had any pity for orcs.’  
  
  
  
  
  


~ OooOooO ~ 

 

 

 

 

The raid on the Notting Hill address that night was not very usual, and had not gone through the normal channels. There was no police cordon; everything was done quickly and exceptionally quietly.

The trafficked youngsters were taken away through the rear of the house, while the clients were shut in their rooms, yelling innocence and lawyers and threats. The doors were secured so that no-one would slip away; ostensibly they were to wait until they were taken for questioning. After a time, the people guarding the rooms were withdrawn, leaving the house.

For some time after that, it was oddly quiet.

They never knew what started the fire. Some swore that the house seemed to explode as if from a gas leak, except that the gas had been disconnected years ago. A few curious locals glimpsed a tall, red-headed man walking by, saw him glance at the house and give a snap or flick of his fingers, but save for his height and hair, there was nothing suspicious about him. Just another curious pedestrian. They only noticed, they said, because just after that the house...detonated.

A few braver souls hurled themselves from the high windows, the front and back doors having become strangely jammed.

Very few got out.

 

 

 

 

~ OooOooO ~ 

 

 

 

 


End file.
